


Time Shakes This Fragile Frame at Eve

by Darci



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Chronic Illness, Long-Distance Relationship, References to Depression, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29850198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darci/pseuds/Darci
Summary: Thomas learns he may not have as much time left as he thought, and comes to a decision about the future.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	Time Shakes This Fragile Frame at Eve

Thomas Barrow sits at the servants’ table and focuses on the monumental task of cutting his potato with a fork. The leftover roast and potatoes smell delicious, mocking him as he tries to move arms heavy with fatigue. He feels a bit foggy; the chatter of his colleagues washes past his ears in a garbled jumble. He’s not had trouble sleeping lately, but lately he has been feeling as if he’s been kept awake for a solid month. His fork slips off the curved edge of the potato and clatters sharply against the porcelain plate. Thomas glares at the potato, doleful, and curses the offending vegetable.

“Thomas?” Baxter leans forward over her own plate, her brow knitted with concern. “Are you alright?”

Before he can answer, Anna interrupts. “He looks a bit grey.”

They’re all looking at him now, worried, and he scowls. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”

Mrs. Hughes, too knowing, peers at him in a way that reminds him of his mum when she was checking if he was really ill or faking. Her lips thin. He must look horrible because she says “Go on up to bed, Thomas. Daisy can bring you up some tea later.” 

Baxter takes a sip of her water. “Ought we to call Dr. Clarkson?”

 _Absolutely not_. “No. I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he says. He tucks his napkin next to his plate and stands. It’s a good thing everyone else stands when he does, because the next thing he knows the world has dissolved into fuzzy waves and he’s gripping the table, with Mr. Molesley’s arm supporting him, as dizziness overtakes him.

They call Dr. Clarkson.

* * *

He half expects Clarkson to take one look at him, roll his eyes, and tell Thomas to stop lollygagging. Instead, Clarkson sticks his stethoscope under Thomas’s shirt and listens intently, frowning. He asks about Thomas’s sleeping habits and diet while he touches Thomas’ forehead and neck. He feels Thomas’ fingertips and moves Thomas’ limbs about as if teaching him semaphore. Finally, he has Thomas get out of bed and do some star jumps before reapplying the stethoscope. The whole affair is very tiring and a shade humiliating. Too much fuss over nothing. He’s sure he’ll be told to get some sleep, perhaps take a day or two off. That would be nice.

After scribbling some notes in his tiny notepad and some incoherent grumbling, Clarkson looks over at Thomas with a grave expression on his face. It is not an expression that bodes well.

The news is worse than he imagined. Clarkson says that Thomas has been through too much stress— they both think for a moment of bullet wounds, blood loss, and syringes—and his heart is wearing out. It is weak as an old man’s heart, though Thomas himself is not yet forty. Thomas’ excessive smoking, seesawing weight from days of feeling too melancholic to eat, and generally poor circulation have exacerbated what is most likely a familial disease.

Clarkson writes down a whole list of things Thomas needs to do to keep his heart beating. It’s a long list. Thomas must cut down on smoking (ideally giving it up completely), decrease the amount of beef and pork he consumes, and he mustn’t drink alcohol. He is to eat regularly and to sleep for at least six hours every night. Heavy exercise is forbidden. Light walking is encouraged, but if at any point he starts to feel lightheaded he must sit or lie down for five minutes. He is to avoid stress in general, which Thomas doesn’t point out is unlikely to happen given that he’s the _bloody butler_. He also does not bring up the excessive number of stairs in the Abbey or draw attention to the fact that the family and staff often eat filling, traditionally English meals with a lot of heavy food.

He knows he’s going to have to tell Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore, if this is going to affect his diet and his ability to carry out his duties. He’s going to have to tell Baxter, because she worries about him. His Lordship will have to be told as well, and Thomas thinks that it’s a pity that Carson is already the elder statesman because that means there’ll be nothing left for Thomas to do after he’s put out to pasture for being a sickly old fool. As he curls up in his bed, staring at the list on his nightstand, he wonders what he will tell Richard. He thinks of him, two hundred miles away, and he feels a pang of longing in his weak and traitorous heart.

* * *

There is no talk of sacking him, not yet, but Thomas is sure his days at the Abbey are numbered. The problem, of course, is that there is no one to take his place. Service is a rapidly dying industry, and most of the experienced butlers have died off. Suppose no one is found to replace him? Thomas wonders. What if he is the last butler of Downton Abbey? What will happen to it as the staff and money fade away? He supposes that he’s unlikely to see its downfall, now. He’ll be dead before then. He’s had a lot of time to get used to thought of dying. There had been a time when he had sought death, and sometimes he still feels a longing for it, but those days are farther apart now. The shadow of melancholy hovers around him always, but now he can usually fight it with the thought of Baxter’s smile or by touching Richard’s key fob. Though Richard gifted the fob to Thomas, he still thinks of the accessory as belonging to Richard. It’s a part of Richard, a part that Thomas can carry around wherever he goes. It’s soothing. He needs that, most days.

He feels that news like this should be given in person, but that’s not an option for them. They will not be able to meet for another few months. He could tell Richard in a letter, but he wants to hear his lover’s voice and to be able to reassure him. He calls Richard one evening after everyone else has gone to bed. They have an appointed telephone time, so they can ensure that they are waiting near the telephone and that they have a semblance of privacy. Richard’s voice is rich and smooth, and slightly crackly through the wire. He can’t help but smile as he greets Richard, and he allows himself some moments of contentment as Richard natters on about the upcoming trip to Balmoral. When Thomas tells him Clarkson’s diagnosis, Richard goes quiet. To fill the silence Thomas goes over the list of restrictions and adds that it seems that the Crawleys will be accommodating towards him. He doesn’t joke that if he’s feeling down he can simply commit suicide via a light jog, because obviously Richard will not see that as an advantage and Thomas making light of the situation would be the opposite of comforting.

“Is it safe for you to keep working?” Richard’s soft voice is full of concern. Thomas hates when people at Downton express concern for him because they always make him feel pitiable and small. Richard’s concern somehow has the magical effect of making Thomas feel calm and warm, as if he were drinking a cup of hot tea on a cold day.

He shrugs, though Richard can’t see him over the phone. “Nothing else I can do, I think.”

“You could retire. Find part-time work in a shop or something. I’m sure there’s a watchmaker somewhere who needs an apprentice.”

Thomas snorts. “Watchmaking is as dead an industry as service is.”

A moment of quiet as Richard considers his words. “Surely you’ve thought about what you could do outside of service? You’re so talented, you could do anything.”

The pinprick of pride he feels at being called talented is quickly buried by his doubts. “I don’t want to work at a hospital. I’ve had enough of blood and sickness to last a lifetime, and I can’t do delicate work, not with my hand. Can’t make a living looking after children—at least, _I_ can’t—no one wants a man hanging about their children, never mind one who’s—well, anyway, nursing and nannying don’t allow for a lot of resting time, do they? I think I’m rather stuck here for a bit, least until they sack me.”

“You know,” Richard sounds hesitant. “If you needed to—for any reason, if you needed a place to stay, my parents would be more than happy to take you in. Mum already thinks of you as a son, and I think you’d like York if you got know it better.”

Thomas feels a momentary urge to snap that he doesn’t need _charity_ , thank you very much, but the moment passes and he doesn’t say anything. Richard continues doggedly. “I’ve been thinking lately. Of York and—you see, I think I’m getting rather old for London. I would like to move back home, and I would like it if you…” he trails off. Richard is usually charming and confident and able to pull of ridiculous feats with enviable panache. His uncertainty now is very telling of the cost of the asking, the danger of asking Thomas _over the phone_ , _where anyone could eavesdrop_ , if he would consider taking such a leap of faith.

“You don’t have to answer now,” Richard says. “But will you think about it?”

Thomas’ heart is doing a funny little dance that he is certain has nothing to do with illness. “I promise you, Dick, I’ll be able to think of nothing else.”

* * *

He does think about it. He thinks about it as he lies sleepless in bed, he mulls as he drinks his morning coffee, he ponders as he arranges dishes on the sideboard. Could he do it? It’s a huge risk for both of them, giving up their careers and lodgings on the chance of—of what? Thomas is a romantic, but he isn’t stupid. He would love to move in Richard, to have their own place, their own schedules. But the danger of being found out and arrested is real, as it always is when they’re together, and even without that there is always the chance that Thomas simply… won’t make it. He won’t be able to find a job. He’ll make Richard miserable. He’ll off himself. Maybe one day going up the front steps will be a step too far (ha!) and he’ll drop dead then and there. What would Richard do then? It’s not fair to Richard, none of it is, but he can’t bring himself to definitively shut the door on the possibility that things could turn out _well_.

* * *

He’s walking around the side yard, trying to configure the setup of outdoor tables for the upcoming gathering. It’s been warm lately, and Lady Mary wants a garden party (Maybe he and Richard could have a garden?). Some of the geranium beds look a bit downtrodden and Thomas gleefully jots down a note to yell at the gardener. The guest list isn’t terribly long. They only need five tables but the nearest oak tree only provides enough shade for three so he is going to have to haul two garden parasols out. He tugs at his collar. It really is unseasonably warm. His notes done, he stalks toward the courtyard, still loosening his collar. He hasn’t walked far when dizziness washes over him. He stumbles, throwing one arm against an old wall to support himself. Clutching his checklist, he droops against the wall, breathing hard. There is a stone bench not far, just under the shade of an elm, and he struggles over to it. The shade is _gorgeous_. He pants lightly, wondering just how ill he is if a walk on a warm day makes him feel like this.

“Barrow?”

Just what he needs now. Lady Mary and the Countess have appeared from bloody _nowhere_ and have clearly seen his distress. They sail over, elegant in diaphanous cream and blue, and Lady Mary looks curiously at him. He realises he is still sitting -- if what he is doing can even be called sitting-- in the presence of his superiors and he makes to stand, which turns out to be a very poor idea. Torn between giddiness and social convention, he dithers idiotically between standing and slumping until the Countess take pity and instructs him to stay seated.

“Thank you, My Lady,” he croaks.

She frowns delicately. “Perhaps you should take the remainder of the day off, Mr. Barrow. You look very ...tired.”

Lady Mary looks pointedly over to where the tables are supposed to be erected for the party. “Will the preparations be ready in time? Perhaps the footmen can assist while Barrow oversees everything?”

 _The beginning of the end_ , thinks Thomas vaguely.

The Countess touches her daughter’s elbow gently. “Let the man rest a moment, dear. He _is_ ill.”

Thomas hasn’t told them directly about the diagnosis. His Lordship must have done. If there is one thing he hates more than being talked about as if he’s not there, it’s being gossiped about behind his back. He forces himself to sit upright. “I’ll be well in a moment, My Lady. I’ll have Andrew and Albert carry the tables. No need to worry.”

* * *

He worries a lot over the next couple days. The grocer mixes up a delivery. One of the parasols is torn and wants mending. A tap in one of the guest rooms is leaking and it’s very likely the pipes leading to it will have to be replaced. There is a loose cobble on a walkway to the garden that keeps tripping up everyone on the path. Throughout the whole ordeal Richard’s offer never leaves his thoughts. He knows he is not following Dr. Clarkson’s orders as well as he should and is finding himself increasingly cranky due to the lack of cigarettes. Mrs. Patmore has been preparing light soups for his suppers, which should make him feel honored when she’s doing so much extra work for him, but he’s used to more filling fare and is often hungry. On the morning of the party one of the newer maids doesn’t clean out the grate properly and it makes him want to tear his hair out. They don’t even _use_ the damn thing much in summer but is it too much to ask for his staff to be _competent_?

The evening before the party he gets a quote from the plumber about the leaking pipes. The given price can’t be right, he decides. Too many numbers. Is the man trying to swindle them? Is this how much plumbing regularly costs? Can he and Richard even afford to maintain any house they buy? This is unacceptable. He’s reaching for the telephone to call the plumber when a dart of thick pain stabs deep in his chest. His clothes feel too small, like they are compressing his rib cage which is in turn crushing his heart. He slides off his chair and flops on the floor next to his desk. This is a nice floor, very cool and flat. He had never noticed its virtues before. Pressure squeezes his chest. He clutches his shirtfront. No, this is not how it ends. He is not going to die like this, prostrate on the floor of an old butler’s pantry. A small, indecorous moan escapes his lips. At least, he thinks dully, there is no one here to witness his indignity.

Because nothing ever goes in his favour, there is a light knock at the door and the click of a latch as someone enters the room.

“Oh, Thomas!” Mrs. Hughes, God bless her, is at his side in an instant, fluttering her hands over his face. His chest aches, a deep and unreachable pain. He groans in response. “Oh! I’ll be right back, dear!” She pats him smartly before standing and disappearing into the corridor. He hears her cry “Andrew!” and two pairs of footsteps tap into the room. From this angle Andy looks monumentally giant. Mrs. Hughes flutters some more before taking charge.

“Andrew, help Mr. Barrow to his room. He’s taken ill. I’ll call Dr. Clarkson.”

Andy hefts Thomas halfway up. “He was ill so he lay down on the floor?” The boy really is stupid sometimes.

“S’a lovely floor,” mutters Thomas, just to be contrary. They ignore him. As Andy half-carries him up the stairs Thomas bitterly regrets that the arms around him aren’t Richard’s.

* * *

“We’re terribly sorry, Barrow. We really have been working you too hard.” Lord Grantham, grand and weirdly out of place, stands in the middle of Thomas’ tiny bedroom. He clasps his hands behind his back and stares thoughtfully at Thomas’ crooked little bookshelf with its meagre assortment of worn-out books. The man has whole libraries downstairs and Thomas can’t fathom how pathetic his tiny collection must seem.

“Dr. Clarkson recommended that you rest more. We can distribute your duties among the footmen” –Lord Grantham winces at the impropriety of the situation— “and upper staff.”

“I apologize for the trouble, My Lord,” murmurs Thomas, partly because he feels like he should apologize and partly to fill the awkward silence.

“Oh, it’s quite alright, Barrow. These things do happen,” Lord Grantham answers meditatively. Thomas remembers Lord Grantham’s collapse before being given his own list of restrictions by Dr. Clarkson. Maybe it really _is_ the food here. Maybe this is all Mrs. Patmore’s fault. Huh.

Lord Grantham moves as if to squeeze Thomas’ shoulder then thinks the better of it. He gives a decisive nod as if settling a private matter and exits briskly.

Baxter appears to fill the space he left behind. She strokes his hair and he almost melts in her hands. He whispers to her, secretive and mischievous, about Richard and a home in York. It’s time, he thinks. Staying here will kill him, and he’d rather die having spent all the time he could with Richard. Even if the time they have is short, he’ll cherish it more for its brevity. Perhaps it’s stupid of him, but he can’t _not_ try, and at heart he has always been a reckless dreamer. Granted, none of his efforts have ever really paid off before, but this time he won’t be alone. Richard will be there to catch him.

He calls Richard the next night. Richard is understandably troubled by Thomas’ episode of angina, and it takes some convincing to keep him from jumping on the soonest train North. Out of habit Thomas looks around to make sure he’s alone before he makes his proclamation to Richard.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. I think I’ll like York.”

Richard inhales sharply. “Are you sure?” He sounds almost breathless.

Thomas can’t stop grinning into the mouthpiece. “Yes.”

* * *

The morning dawns grey and foggy. Thomas stands in the yard, playing with his lighter and munching on a biscuit he stole from Daisy, which is probably not good for him but won’t kill him because he _refuses_ to be done in by a _biscuit_. He wants to smoke while he thinks but he can’t so he flicks the lighter open and shut, the tiny clicks of it the only sound in the empty yard. The flame in the fog is tiny and inconsequential but comforting nonetheless. Familiar. He’s going to turn in his notice today. They’ll have some time to find a replacement if they want to, but he can’t wait around until they do. It’s not that he’s eager to be gone. He’s lived here for so long and it’s inevitable that he’ll miss it. He’ll miss the quiet mornings before breakfast, the servants’ chatter and petty rivalries, the dreamy majesty of the Abbey rearing into the sky. He’ll miss the children most of all. York isn’t very far away. He’ll be able to visit, but it won’t be the same.

He pockets his lighter and breathes in the sharp morning air. Yes, he’ll miss it, but he can’t regret leaving. He may not have a lot of time left, and he means to make the most of it.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Title from “I Look Into My Glass” by Thomas Hardy  
> 2) I am not a medical professional and I don’t have experience with cardiomyopathy or angina. Thomas’ symptoms are a mix of cardiomyopathy and of Thomas simply not taking care of himself. Any incorrect medical information can be chalked up to it being like, 1930.  
> 3) I don’t know the layout of the grounds around the Abbey so I’m just assuming there’s a little grassy area somewhere that would be nice for garden parties.  
> 4) Apparently when addressing a Countess you can say “My Lady” or “Your Ladyship”. It’s been awhile since I’ve watched the show and I don’t remember the title the servants use when addressing Cora, so I’ve left it as “My Lady”.


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